Chapter 77 – Attaining Mastery in the War Camp
Xiao Sixian's Liao army was stationed on the northern bank of the Apja River.
Fearing that the Jurchens would cross, they were breaking the frozen river.
Young-woo asked Aguda for permission to take the vanguard.
Aguda did not decide himself and instead told him to speak with Wanyan Zongwang, who had already been appointed as the vanguard commander.
When Young-woo made his request, Zongwang hesitated, concerned that a Goryeo man might be injured.
He turned to Wanyan Zonghan for judgment.
Zonghan nodded. It would be fine.
At some point, asking Zonghan about everything had become a habit.
Even without speaking, he seemed to hear.
Even without seeing, he seemed to know.
It was the presence he carried.
Though their numbers were not large, Zonghan already possessed the aura of a supreme commander.
He could read the entire battlefield.
There was a saying—
that a man is established before the deed is accomplished.
It was visible in him.
Meanwhile, having gained approval, Young-woo drove his cultivation of the simbeop (心法) to its limit.
Even while moving, he continued the Small Heavenly Cycle (Sojucheon).
To maintain it on horseback was no simple matter.
The slightest lapse shattered concentration.
If his mind followed the road,
he would forget he was breathing in discipline at all.
What remained was neither study nor marching—
only something blurred between the two.
But Young-woo…
was different.
He did it.
It worked.
He had no particular talent.
But whatever he did, he pursued it to the end.
Until it worked.
He did not concern himself with failure.
Failure once or twice?
He had failed countless times.
Even if his life filled with regret,
he would continue.
To say failure is sorrowful—
that was the voice of one who had never truly failed.
Those who tried once or twice and stopped
called that failure.
Young-woo was not one of them.
He found it easier to cultivate within life
than in stillness.
When he sat in meditation, thoughts crowded in.
His mind scattered.
But when he marched,
when he worked,
he focused completely.
That was the kind of man he was.
From the moment he first completed the Small Heavenly Cycle at Seonchun Ridge,
he had continued it without interruption.
The Daoist teachings said it required one hundred days.
But what was one hundred days?
It could not mean uninterrupted time.
It was not a literal count of days,
but a long accumulation of effort.
Young-woo did not count days.
He counted only the time he truly focused.
Subtracting sleep, food, and duty,
he could not even reach half of a full day's twelve periods.
They said a seed of energy, no larger than a mustard grain,
would sprout in the dantian—
and after one hundred days, the work would be complete.
That "hundred days" meant
a life devoted almost entirely to cultivation.
Young-woo, though freed from minor tasks,
still carried responsibility within the Jurchen army.
He cultivated within life itself.
So it never broke.
In the end,
he achieved it before those hundred days had passed.
Before the war began in earnest,
he wanted to become a master.
He did not want to collapse under expectations
he could not bear.
If all things in this world could be reduced to desire,
then his desire was simple—
to become a master.
To no longer be toyed with by hollow schemes.
To fulfill his role completely.
To stand as a true martial master.
During training, he practiced the Great Heavenly Cycle.
Alone, he returned to the Small Heavenly Cycle.
The seed of energy grew.
Everything in the world became explainable as qi.
Even things with form
revealed themselves as qi.
The movement of people—
also qi.
Perhaps, with his master's guidance,
he had already surpassed the hundred days.
Somewhere along the road
from Ningjiangzhou to Chulhajeom,
in a nameless encampment,
he completed it.
On a freezing dawn,
a red radiance rose above Young-woo's tent.
Radiance—
or perhaps
eruption.
Silver and gold light intertwined,
spreading like a Buddha's halo.
The light seeped through the seams of the tent
and spread outward.
It was not harsh.
It resembled the soft glow of a winter lantern
shining through paper doors.
The camp lay submerged in deep night.
Dying embers pulsed faintly red.
The wind skimmed low across the frozen earth.
The soldiers were scattered through their tents.
Bodies heavy with fatigue endured the cold.
Into that stillness,
a faint brightness began to seep.
At first, no one noticed.
It felt like the dark thinning.
Like moonlight drifting.
As if the night had softened.
But the light gathered.
It centered.
On Young-woo's tent.
The canvas glowed from within.
Light leaked through the seams.
It spread across the ground.
Settled on dry grass and dust.
Warmth seeped into the cold air.
It moved slowly,
filling the space where people stood.
The darkness loosened.
The first soldier noticed.
He raised his head.
His gaze followed the light.
And where it stopped,
his breath seemed to stop with it.
Another followed.
Their eyes met at the same place.
No words were needed.
They already knew.
The change spread like a tide.
One by one, men rose.
Things slipped from their hands.
Without a word,
they all looked in the same direction.
The light widened.
The darkness did not retreat violently.
It peeled away, thin and quiet.
The light did not sting the eyes.
It settled,
like an old memory.
Breathing slowed.
Someone took a step, then stopped.
Another stood frozen in place.
Speech faded.
Silence deepened.
Then,
through the gathered men,
So Cheol-ryong stepped forward.
His pace was steady.
Without hesitation.
He looked toward the tent.
Paused.
Measured the texture of the light.
Turned his head.
Raised his hand.
That single motion was enough.
At his signal,
the twenty-five men of the 5th unit moved.
They formed a circle around the tent.
They set their spacing.
Watched the light over each other's shoulders.
They became one form.
That distance became a boundary.
Cheol-un turned outward.
Where his gaze fell,
feet stopped.
Those who would approach
did not move further.
Twenty-five men
surrounded the tent.
To guard it.
Shields were raised.
Spears were planted into the ground.
People gathered, drawn by the strangeness.
And stopped.
The will of the Goryeo soldiers—
it made them hesitate.
The light continued to flow.
The night deepened.
Someone exhaled slowly.
They did not understand
what they were seeing.
They did not leave.
They did not block it.
They did not step inside.
They simply stood there—
quietly,
guarding
that night.